"Feed 'em the spur!" shouted Retherton. "If we can't hit him shooting
ahead, he ain't got a chance to hit us shootin' backwards." For it is
notoriously hard to turn in the saddle and accomplish anything with a
rifle. One is moving away from the target instead of toward it, and every
condition of ordinary shooting is reversed; above all, the moment a man
turns his head he is completely out of touch with his horse. Apparently the
fugitive knew this and made no attempt to place his shots. He merely jerked
his gun to the shoulder and blazed away as soon as it was in place; half a
dozen yards in front of Retherton the bullet kicked up the dust.
"I told you," he shouted. "He can't do nothin' that way. Close in, boys.
Close in for God's sake!"
He himself was flailing with his quirt, and the buckskin grunted at every
strike. Once more the rifle pitched to the outlaw's shoulder, and this time
the bullet clicked on a rock not ten feet from Retherton, and again on a
straight line for him.
"Damned if that ain't shootin'!" called Garry, and Retherton, alarmed,
swung the buckskin out to one side to throw the marksman out of line.
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